Born into the Children of God

by Natacha Tormey

  For children, the reports were just as bizarre. We had to write down what bad thoughts or spiritual battles we’d had and any moral lessons or victories we’d learned that week. We also got asked about our toilet habits – how many poos we’d done and whether they were soft or hard. Sometimes, after the Home Shepherd or your teacher had reviewed your report they would take you out on a ‘walkie talkie’, which was usually a walk around the garden, during which they would discuss points from your report, particularly those relating to your NWOs (Need Work On) – a list of areas you admitted you needed to work on, for example trying to be more humble or less selfish.

  But the reports weren’t just about ourselves. We also had to include any unspiritual or bad behaviour we’d seen other kids do.

  The teacher went round every child asking them to admit verbally to anything naughty they had done or thought. If you didn’t admit to something you were called a liar. So it was easier just to confess something – anything. That was horrible enough. But what was far more unpredictable was what others said. It wasn’t in my nature to get others into trouble. I had too much empathy, especially with the naughty kids or the cry-baby ones. But if you went for more than two sessions claiming you hadn’t seen anyone do anything bad you were accused of hiding something or covering up for someone. So you were left with the choice of a telling a blatant lie or saying something as mild as you could get away with. I usually opted for the latter and prayed that what I said wouldn’t land another child a serious beating. Other children, like Honey, relished it. She never failed to take the opportunity to twist and exaggerate a tiny misdeed out of all proportion.

  It didn’t occur to me to be worried about the grub. I definitely knew I hadn’t been spotted putting it in the drawer. But of course I hadn’t bargained on the fact that little snitches like Honey have eyes in the back of their heads. She had seen me pocket the grub in the garden and carry it into the house. The first words out of her mouth at the reporting session were: ‘Natacha put a dirty thing in her pocket.’

  I flustered for a few minutes, pretending it wasn’t true. But my face gave it away.

  Of course picking up a garden pest and putting it in your jeans wasn’t the greatest crime in the scheme of things, and this time even the teacher could see that. I might well have escaped a spanking but for my own complete inability to be devious. Before I could stop them the words blurted out of my stupid mouth: ‘I put it in Honey’s drawer. I’m sorry.’

  The pain of the beating was only slightly lessened by the joy of hearing Honey’s squeal when the teacher dragged us both into the dorm and opened the drawer. The big fat grey grub was sitting there on her favourite blouse.

  But if I had thought the worst thing Bangkok could throw at me was crazy rules and punishments like the plank and the wall, I was wrong – far worse was to come.

  I had recently learned that the little girl with the braided hair on the cover of Heaven’s Girl was in fact inspired by Grandpa’s real granddaughter, Mene.

  Grandpa often referred to her as Merry Mene in his letters. She was one of his favourite grandkids and lived with him. Of course I still didn’t know where that was because the location still needed to be kept a strict secret so that the Antichrist couldn’t find him and kill him.

  Once I learned Mene was Heaven’s Girl she became my real-life heroine. I imagined her running through forests zapping people with her special powers. If I could have chosen to meet any of Grandpa’s family in real life it would have been her. But the mere mention of the name Davidito, his adopted heir, still brought me out in a jealous rage. The fact he was a boy probably didn’t help. I way preferred the idea of a princess instead of a prince leading me into the fight at Armageddon.

  Uncle Titus called us into the dining room for group devotion time. He stood in the centre of the room with a thick sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘I have something very important to read today’, he intoned in his low voice. ‘The whole family is here because this is an issue that affects all of us. There are many reports of second-generation family members behaving in ungodly or ungrateful ways. This will not be tolerated.’

  He explained that in his hand were a series of letters Grandpa had written about Mene. As she reached her teens she had started calling up demons. Every night the demons came to possess her and trick her into being naughty. She saw demons everywhere; she talked to them and even invited them into her bed. Grandpa had tried so hard to make the demons leave Mene. He had carried out exorcisms where he prayed over her as much as 50 times a day and had been forced to beat her up with a big stick. Sometimes the exorcisms made her faint or throw up, but Grandpa said this was a very good thing because it proved the demons were leaving her body.

  I stood to attention, listening in stunned silence. Uncle Titus continued in his pained-sounding voice.

  ‘I am going to pass around copies of another letter. I want you all to read it carefully. As you will see it is a recording of a real conversation between Grandpa and Mene. You will see with your own eyes how much Grandpa loves her and wants to save her.’

  With shaky hands I looked down at the sheet of paper.

  It began with the explanation that Grandpa had handed Mene a large rod and asked her to feel ‘how heavy it is’.

  Then he and Mene spoke back and forth: ‘Slap her! Slap her good! Knock her around! Let her have it! The Lord took hold of her head … and yanked it around and back and forth until I was afraid I was going to yank her head off or break her neck! God was so angry … And then I hauled her and slapped her, I don’t know how many times tonight, hard, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mene didn’t seem to be answering back, pretty much just saying ‘Yes, sir’ in agreement. But that didn’t seem to be enough for him. He ordered Mama Maria and Sara to tie Mene to her bed without food and water, for days if needed. ‘I don’t care if you wet the bed, dear, your hands are going to be tied to the sides of that bed at night. If you don’t get rid of those demons, you may have to get whipped in bed, caned in bed.’

  After we had finished reading you could have heard a pin drop. Every single child in the room was stunned into their own silent world of terror by what they had just read. The piece of paper in my hand felt so tainted. I wanted to tear it up.

  ‘So, children,’ said Titus, ‘Grandpa has sent us some very important lessons today. Some of you in this house are reaching this same tender age where demons will also come to test you. Do not to be tempted to make Mene’s mistake by calling them up and playing with those demons. Do you hear me? Reject the demons. Reject them! I want to hear you promise Jesus. Say it. We will reject the demons.’

  Clearly worried voices recited back: ‘We will reject the demons.’

  It got worse. Titus said what we’d just read was not in fact the end of the story. It had been written some time ago. But Mene had not heeded her lessons. She had continued to trick poor Grandpa with her pretty face and sweet ways by pretending to be cured, while all the time secretly bringing more demons into his home.

  As a last resort to help her learn the error of her ways Grandpa set up a special school for her on a very remote island. To keep her company he had sent other naughty, evil children to join her. They were what were called DTs, detention teens. If any of us tried the same tricks we too would be sent there. But even the school hadn’t worked for Mene. Grandpa could see now she was simply a hopeless case – a plaything of the devil himself.

  For days after hearing all this I felt nauseous. I got on my knees and prayed extra hard, asking Jesus to help me be really good and not fall foul of evil like Mene. I felt completely betrayed by her. How could my heroine have trusted the devil and let him into her heart? I was so angry with her that if she’d been in front of me I think I would have wanted to beat her too.

  But Merry Mene wasn’t the only problem for the group. The original group (back when it was known as the Children of God) had been formed in 1968, over 20 years ago. The first tranche of babies born in t
hose early days had reached their teens a few years earlier. Ever since then reports had been reaching the Shepherds of teenagers getting into fights, rebelling, drinking alcohol or, worst of all, trying to escape the communes. The leadership saw a crisis on their hands. Without getting the situation under control it was feared younger kids would start to follow suit.

  In Word Time we were read countless more Mo letters about the problems of ‘teen terror’. There was story after story of ‘ungrateful, ungodly’ children who had failed to appreciate the ‘loving family’ they had been born into.

  Eventually we were told Grandpa had set up special camps, called Victor Camps or TTCs (Teen Training Centres), to fix the problem. Young teens would be sent to them before they had a chance to turn bad. In the camps they would do a combination of physical labour, prayer and fasting. That would help them stay on the path of righteousness and ensure they didn’t follow the bad examples of others.

  Once again rules made by leaders far away tore apart my family. Now aged 12, my eldest brother, Joe, was sent to a TTC. My dad promised him that it would be great fun and that he’d get to do lots of activities and sports to help him grow strong. The look of dread on his face as he kissed my parents goodbye told me he didn’t believe a word of it.

  Less than a week after Joe was sent away my father announced we were moving to a different commune. I couldn’t wait.

  Chapter 9

  From Russia with Love

  I climbed up onto the closed toilet seat. I knew if I leaned forward onto the windowsill and stretched up onto my toes I could see out to the gate. I stared longingly – praying, willing the gate to open and for my mother to walk through it.

  ‘Natacha. Natacha, where are you, naughty girl?’

  At the sound of Aunty Esther’s voice I jumped off the toilet and ran to take my seat in class.

  As I slid into my chair Esther’s fist rapped into the side of my temple. ‘Wicked girl.’

  Four months earlier we’d moved communes. Initially I had thought the move might make my life easier, but as it turned out I was sadly mistaken. This house was even bigger than the last, with between 150 and 200 permanent residents. On the surface it appeared to be a lot more comfortable than the previous one, with a pretty garden laid to lawn and planted with coconut trees. There was a square-shaped outdoor swimming pool, which I had been thrilled to discover we were allowed to use once a week for physical education lessons. But if the previous commune had been a madhouse of weird regulations, this one was like a military prison camp. Children wore uniforms depending on their age; all the outfits had been donated from various sources and were a funny hotchpotch of styles. I was seven now and the girls in my age group wore a uniform of a short skirt with a drawstring blouse, which was made of a horrible synthetic nylon that felt either cold or clammy on my skin depending on whether I was standing under a fan or outside in the heat.

  As in the home before, we walked everywhere in silence, but if anything the school routine was even more rigid. Classes were held in a separate annex with different teachers for different subjects. For Word Time I had two teachers, Esther and Jeremiah, an African-American married couple from New York.

  They were as different as chalk and cheese. Jeremiah loved children. He was a gentle giant with a shaved head who made up silly poems to make us laugh and always seemed to know if one of us was feeling down or poorly. He was the first adult I had trusted since Joy had left me and I absolutely adored him. Esther was rotund, as short as he was tall, and with a huge Afro that was almost as wide as her. Her favoured method of communication was a hit around the back of the head with knuckles as hard as steel. I hated her.

  My father had been far less happy since the move, having now been officially demoted. The management backbiting against him that had been brewing since Leah’s departure had got gradually worse, until eventually he was told his services as a Shepherd were no longer required. He was utterly dejected, having worked hard to climb the internal hierarchy since joining. To be removed from his post so casually was like a slap in the face. The few freedoms his seniority had allowed him, such as travel to other homes or having a say in the work my mother did, disappeared overnight.

  But for the five children remaining at home, Matt, Marc, Vincent, Guy and me, this meant we saw much more of him. I missed Joe but I had seen so little of him in the previous commune anyway that his absence didn’t seem so strange. His removal to the Victor Camp had been much harder on my mother, who was wracked with guilt, not that she had much choice in the matter.

  Two months after we moved he had been allowed a long-weekend visit home. On the Sunday, family day, we spent it as always in my parents’ bedroom, but instead of jabbering and organising noisy games of marbles as normal he sat on the end of the bed looking subdued and rigid. We asked questions about the camp and the things they did there. He answered politely but briefly.

  ‘Do you like it there?’ my dad asked. ‘I mean, it is fun like I said it would be? Right?’

  Joe was staring at the floor. ‘Yes, Dad. Sure. We have fun.’ He didn’t look up.

  It was hard to put a finger on it. He just seemed – different.

  After dinner the bus came to pick him up. It had done the rounds of the other nearby communes first so it was already crammed full with miserable-looking teenagers when it got to us. Without a word Joe got on and took a seat.

  As my mother waved goodbye the kindly Jeremiah noticed she was upset. He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Are you OK, Patience? It must be a challenge to say goodbye.’

  She glanced around. Jeremiah’s concern was genuine. The other eyes watching her were not. Her every gesture was being assessed for a negative reaction.

  She gave a brittle little smile. ‘No, no, it’s a blessing. Truly. I am so thankful for it.’ She turned to go back inside, trying not to let them see her cry.

  Vincent, now four, was growing into a naughtier child by the day. The commune aunties and uncles had little patience for what they saw as his spoilt, whining ways. He was smacked and hit often. One uncle hit him so hard with the back of his shoe that he was left badly bruised, and he cried non-stop for three days.

  Perhaps the pain of Joe’s absence was still raw, or maybe it was the fact that she was hormonal, having recently learned she was pregnant again, but something made my usually submissive mother snap as her maternal instinct kicked in. She demanded to speak to a senior Shepherd and put in a formal complaint about the man.

  Instead of supporting a woman, quite rightfully angry at the unacceptable levels of violence meted out to her small son, the Shepherd backed the uncle’s version of events. Mom was labelled a troublemaker and a potential doubter.

  To prevent her ‘backsliding’ even further she was ordered to join a team of pioneers on a mission to Siberia in the Soviet Union. The team was to assess whether the Soviet Union, which was in political turmoil at the end of the Cold War, was ‘sheepy’ – believing – enough for The Family to set up bases there. Their mission was to try to win over new recruits, hold Bible classes and see if they could find wealthy patrons who would help support a commune financially.

  At the next family day she and my dad announced the bad news.

  ‘It’s a great honour for her to have been asked,’ said my dad, somewhat unconvincingly.

  ‘But why does Mommy have to go away?’ Vincent was sitting on her lap, his tearful face buried in her chest. ‘Don’t you love us, Mommy?’

  ‘Oh, my little one. Of course I do. I love you so, so, so much. But Jesus has asked me to do this special favour for him. The people there need his love and I have to go share it with them. If Jesus needs this from me, then we all have to make a little sacrifice, don’t we?’

  She cupped his face in her hands to make him look at her. ‘Jesus needs me, Vincent. For him, who gives us so much love, we have to give ourselves. It won’t be for long, little one.’

  She and Dad exchanged another of their secret looks.

  Later I heard the
m arguing. It sounded as though Mom was finding this easier than Dad. ‘You are pregnant. I have got to find a way to prevent this.’

  She hissed at him: ‘Marcel, shush. Keep your voice down. If someone overhears you’ll be reported too. And then what? I need you here to take care of the children. I will manage. If it’s Jesus’s will to keep me safe then I will fine.’

  ‘How in Jesus’s name can a pregnant woman be sent to such a godforsaken place? This is not about Jesus. It’s about punishing us both. I won’t have it.’

  She went over and put her arms around him. ‘If this is God’s will then we will survive this test. It’s only for 12 weeks. It will fly by. And when I come back Jesus will reward us with another baby.’

  He nodded at her wanly.

  What my father knew but we children didn’t was that she was being sent close to the city of Chelyabinsk, the site of a former Soviet plutonium production site and one of the most polluted places on earth.

  My father was beside himself with worry. He also felt incredibly guilty. He had fully supported her complaint and encouraged her to do it. So he felt that if anyone should be have been punished it should be him. He pleaded with the Shepherds to reconsider, but to no avail. This plummeted him into a severe depression.

  My youngest brother, Guy, wasn’t yet two years old. He had never been separated from my mom for more than a day, having always slept in the nursery where she worked. The day she left his heart-rending cries of ‘Mommy, Mommy, wan’ my mommy’ rang out through the corridors. I watched as an aunty picked him up to cuddle him, but instead of calming or reassuring him that his mother was coming back she repeated over and over the same old motivational mantra that was supposed to cure everything: ‘Get the victory, get the victory.’